


What Fastens Two People Yet Only Touches One?

by Roehrborn



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Awkward Romance, Coffee porn actually, Fluff, Future Fic, Humor, Love, M/M, Making Up, POV Oswald Cobblepot, Post-Canon, Snark, kind of cracky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-27
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2019-01-05 23:03:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12199167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roehrborn/pseuds/Roehrborn
Summary: Oswald doesn’t understand why Ed keeps showing up at the Iceberg bringing him coffee.  Ivy thinks Ed’s trying to ask him out.  But Ivy is obviously deluded at best.Several years into the future, Ed and Oswald perform the world’s least effective mating dance.





	What Fastens Two People Yet Only Touches One?

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another future enemies fic where I ignore all the tension and proceed with the fluffiness. But who’s going to stop me? Who?? Who can stop me? No one.
> 
> Thought I’d better get this one out before my favorite Oswald-Ivy broship implodes, eh?
> 
> I can’t remember where I found this prompt but I _love_ it: my archnemesis keeps on bringing me coffee every morning so obviously they’re playing mind games with me, so now I’m going to do the same and bring them dinner every evening
> 
> Hope you enjoy! <3  
> ~R

The Iceberg Lounge is quiet this early in the afternoon; the only occupants are Oswald and his security officers. And Oswald’s beginning to doubt he should even bother with paying them, because suddenly he hears a familiar throat clearing in front of him and he looks up from his papers with a scowl.

And who should his untimely visitor be but Edward Nygma, AKA The Riddler, regular bane of his existence (and the GCPD’s; and that is about the only thing Oswald could claim to have in common with _that_ institution). He is wearing a laughably green outfit (forest green; the color would be complimentary if there were a little _less_ of it) with his gaudy golden question mark staff slung over his shoulder, and in his hand…

Not a gun, or a puzzle box, or a remote-activated gas bomb only preventable by solving one of his _ridiculous_ puzzles, but…

A takeout cup.

“What’s this?” Oswald asks.

“Can you smell it?” Edward asks, setting the cup down onto Oswald’s desk.

The distinct aroma of coffee (a blonde roast, and if Oswald’s suspicions prove correct, from his favorite coffee shop on South Main) wafts up from the cup. Oswald looks up at Edward, a dubious expression on his face.

“Should keep you alert for tonight,” Edward says cheerily.

Oswald picks up the cup in a tentative grip and turns it around in his hand. He spots the logo on the cup - it is indeed from his favorite coffee shop.

“What’s tonight?” Oswald asks. He does his best to make his voice sound irritated and incurious, but when Edward smiles toothily at him he’s afraid he’s been unsuccessful.

“I’m breaking into your safe at Gotham Unified Bank and stealing all your gold bullion,” Edward informs him cheerily.

Oswald stares at the other man, someone he once knew better than himself, and feels a little confused frown appearing on his face, quite of its own volition. Surely… “Usually, one doesn’t announce one’s future heists to the intended victim of the crime,” Oswald tells him (and what an intense sensation of deja vu _that_ is, trying to _teach_ this mule-headed man anything).

“Of course,” Edward says. “But I thought it’d be polite. We were friends, once, after all.”

And that - _that_ , Oswald doesn’t know how to respond to.

“Were we, Ed?” Oswald finally asks, tiredly and mysteriously (it saves him the trouble of taking a stance; the Penguin is rarely cryptic, and when he is, people assume it’s for good reason).

“Of course we were,” Edward tells him immediately, and Oswald’s heart plunges down to his stomach.

“Well,” Oswald says finally, plastering on the “politely condescending” expression that he uses most often with Jim Gordon these days, “good luck. But unless you’ve been lifting, I don’t think you’ll be able to carry it all.”

“I suppose we’ll see,” Edward tells him with a smile that someone, somewhere, must have once told him was charming. (Perhaps it had been Oswald himself; and if that’s the case, Oswald wishes he could appear before his past self and _smack_ him.)

“I suppose so,” Oswald agrees, and Edward seems to accept that as a dismissal. He waves as he leaves, jauntily, and Oswald suppresses the automatic desire to throw the cup of coffee after him.

Instead, Oswald sets it back down on his desk. He eyes it, a little suspiciously; Edward has never tried to drug Oswald before, but Oswald wouldn’t put it past him if it served his purpose.

But surely there could be nothing to gain from incapacitating Oswald? Not with such an _obvious_ method? And no satisfaction in killing him this way? And Ivy will be coming by tonight, so if anything undue happens, she can surely resuscitate him?

Besides; with the number of times he’s stood face-to-face with death and yet not succumbed, due to luck or forethought or compassion, he feels just a little immortal.

Decisively, Oswald pops the lid off of the coffee and takes a sip, closing his eyes and letting out a little sigh of satisfaction as he does so. Edward got the cream and sugar exactly right (as he always had; Oswald had only had to tell him once, and Edward’s dark eyes had been focused on him unerringly. Little did Oswald realize he was committing the facts to his formidable memory bank, never to be disposed of, even after everything that has passed between them.)

~

Edward does indeed make away with half of Oswald’s stock of gold bullion before Oswald’s employees finally catch up to him. To be fair, it’s hardly a significant fraction of Oswald’s net worth, and he certainly isn’t as easily-amused by shiny metals as Edward is (his flamboyance is, frankly, practically obscene).

Still. He’s not sure whether the coffee was an act of taunting or… what? What else could it be?

His question is still unanswered when Edward shows up at the Iceberg a few days later. Oswald chews his lip as he stares fixedly at the security feed (despite the urgings of his security force, the feed comes directly to his desk and his desk only), watching Edward rock back and forth on the balls of his feet.

He has coffee, again; actually, he has _two_ coffees, again from Oswald’s favorite cafe on South Main.

Oswald worries at his lip a little more (if it gets sore and swollen, at least people might think he’s _getting_ some) before reaching for his mobile, flicking it open and dialing a familiar number.

The bewildered barista on the other end of the line confirms his inquiries hesitantly, as if they’re afraid of being assassinated should they answer incorrectly. (That fear is utterly ungrounded -- really, their coffee is _unparalleled_ and he’s not sure which one of the entirely-interchangeable employees is the one who puts his order together, so they are all safe by group immunity.)

Oswald slams his phone shut with more questions than answers.

So what? he tells himself. _So Edward has decided to keep me caffeinated. Perhaps he’s lulling me into a false sense of security. Perhaps he’s trying to garner my favor for some request. Perhaps this is some sort of elaborate riddle. Or perhaps he’s just a terrible, inscrutable bastard, and I should kill him now to get it over with._

Oswald shakes his head, abruptly -- knowing his luck, Edward would be the chosen subject of some nouveau-Strange and awaken with a hunger for brains and revenge.

He looks back down at his security monitor and his heart lurches up and into his throat -- Edward is making his determined way here, skirting Oswald’s dumbfounded guests with little more than a glance.

Oswald instinctively finds himself fiddling with his hair (an automatic response to _any_ unexpected visitors, not just… _him_ ) and keys the compartment with the security feed to shut, sealing itself away smoothly. One of the most convenient aspects of being a multi-millionaire is that he can afford custom designs and (even better) he can hire from out-of-state, so the contractors will take his secrets with him when they go. (After all, there’s only so many times you can hire local contractors and murder them afterward before word starts to travel about your poor business practices.)

And then Edward bursts through his doorway, nonchalantly, as if this is all perfectly ordinary behavior for the both of them.

Oswald stops chewing his lip immediately (it’s a terrible habit he’s gotten himself into, ever since he quit smoking for good); he’s afraid with Edward here, he’ll end up gnawing straight through.

“Hello, Oswald,” Edward says. “I brought you a coffee.”

“So I see,” Oswald says with equanimity (he’s as surprised as anyone that he pulls it off).

Edward takes the few scant steps forward that are required in order to place the coffee on top of Oswald’s desk, and then he darts back, as if scalded. He clutches the other one in two hands, directly in front of his chest. Oswald reaches out with an uncertain hand to grasp the purportedly-safe coffee, dragging it toward him across the desk slowly.

“What tastes better than it smells?” Edward asks him as he does so, voice sounding almost giddy.

“This coffee?” Oswald asks, somewhat dubiously, and Ed's grin stretches even wider. The sight sets something stirring in Oswald’s gut that is no doubt a fight-or-flight response.

“Well, yes,” he says, “but that was a riddle.”

“A riddle?” Oswald asks, sarcastically (or, at least, as sarcastically as he can manage with his heart still lodged in his throat). “From the Riddler?” The coffee is sitting on his desk directly in front of him, and the smell _is_ intoxicating.

“Your tongue,” Edward says eagerly, in a rush, and it's only with his utmost determination that Oswald keeps his expression blank.

“ _What_ ,” he says, voice overloud.

“Your tongue _can't_ smell,” Edward elaborates, as if that's helpful at all, “although, to be fair, most of what comprises _taste_ is, in fact, scent. But your tongue isn't doing any of the smelling.”

Oswald gives in to the madness. “Okay,” he says.

“So?” Edward asks, grin fading a little at Oswald’s lackluster response.

“So?” Oswald responds. _The enigmatic bastard!_

“Are you going to taste it?” Edward asks (his tone implying that _Oswald_ is the one being absurd).

Oswald tries to purse his lips and finds he’s gnawing on his lower lip once again. He relinquishes it self-consciously and leans back in his chair, deliberately nonchalant. Edward watches him closely with strangely pensive eyes. For a moment Oswald wonders, but… (that possibility was crossed off his list as soon as it was conceived.)

“If this kills me, I will haunt you ad aeternum,” Oswald informs Edward flatly.

“Consciousness ends at death,” Edward says. “But I take it Poison Ivy would make my life a living hell, so perhaps that could be interpreted as some sort of ad hoc haunting. Thematically speaking.”

“Hmm,” Oswald agrees, dubiously, and takes a sip of the coffee.

It’s just as good as it was last time, perfectly catered to his taste. Somehow it tastes _better_ than when he orders it himself; how, he has no idea. Perhaps the temperature? He suppresses the instinctive groan as the coffee hits his tongue, well aware of how _that_ would be received by Ed.

“Well?” Edward asks.

Oswald opens his eyes (when had he closed them?) and looks Edward directly in the eye. There’s something there, something he just can’t _quite_ read. “Perfect,” Oswald says, his voice coming out rougher than he intended.

The look on Edward’s face is… he doesn’t have words for it, so he doesn’t _bother_ to think of words for it. He chews his lip instead, turning in his seat to find something else to look at -- ah, his phone, for example.

“I do have another riddle for you,” Edward says. “I-- I want you to think about this one.”

“Hmm,” Oswald says, deliberately absent minded, scrolling through his text messages with Ivy as if searching for something.

“What fastens two people yet only touches one?” Edward asks him.

“What?” Oswald asks him incuriously.

“No--” Edward says. “No, _you_ have to figure it out.”

Oswald lifts his eyes from his phone screen to focus on Edward’s face. It seems he’s in earnest, and automatically Oswald is determined to be as obstinate and unhelpful as possible. “I do, do I?”

Edward fiddles with the sleeve on his coffee, looking almost distraught at Oswald’s response. “Yes. Don’t look it up. Think about it.”

Oswald tries to frown consideringly, and finds his lower lip stinging as it escapes from between his teeth. Edward’s gaze drifts downward to his frown. For some reason it seems like he can’t tear his eyes away from Oswald’s frown, his lower lip sore and no doubt bright red.

“All right,” Oswald agrees, uncertain, and Edward’s gaze darts up to his and his mouth instantly transforms into a bright grin.

“Okay, Oswald,” he says. “Enjoy your coffee.”

“I will,” Oswald says back, eyes narrowed, and he watches Edward leave. (And if his eyes slide down Edward’s back to focus on an area that isn’t entirely appropriate to stare at, well… no one noticed, so it doesn’t count.)

~

Ed keeps showing up.

He’ll appear at random times during the day or night, always with coffee in tow. Eventually, Oswald stops making a show of testing it and demanding to know if it’s poisoned, simply accepting it with a little smile (it’s only _polite_ ). Ed seems delighted, the first day that Oswald accepts it without question, which fuels Oswald’s suspicions; but when he _still_ doesn’t drop dead the day after, he accepts it without questioning.

It’s bizarre; Ed doesn’t ask for anything in return (Oswald had half expected him to begin demanding favors in exchange, but he just… doesn’t). In fact, he almost seems to take Oswald’s _company_ as equitable exchange; each time, he stays a little longer, giving Oswald significant looks whenever Oswald glances at the clock, as if daring Oswald to comment.

Oswald doesn’t. (It would be rude, wouldn’t it?) He does his best to take Ed’s frequent appearances in stride.

And once the novelty wears off, it begins to feel natural. Like a comfortable pair of shoes, their relationship is broken in; the familiar paths well-trodden and pleasant. Time and time again Oswald finds himself smiling absentmindedly, remembering some humorous comment Ed made, or anticipating his next visit, or… (even just picturing his smiling face: his familiar, well-cherished face).

And _that’s_ when Oswald begins to feel uneasy.

What the hell is Ed doing? Why is he ingratiating himself back into Oswald’s life like this? _Why hasn’t he asked for anything in exchange_?

What if he _is_ taking something in exchange, without Oswald being aware of it?

Something Oswald won’t be able to get back?

~

Oswald is sitting at dinner with Ivy, which is usually an enjoyable experience of sibling bonding. (Despite their difference in appearance, no one can mistake them as otherwise; they hit each other with well-aimed jabs and yet have an easy acceptance to their relationship, the likes of which he’s never quite managed with anyone else. Perhaps being her mentor initially allows him to feel secure in their friendship: he knows how she thinks.) But tonight, Ivy looks exasperated with him, and Oswald can’t seem to get a helpful answer out of her to save his life.

“Ivy, he won’t _stop_ ,” Oswald groans, “I’ve had more coffee this past month than in the rest of the year combined.”

Ivy rolls her eyes at him (a terrible habit) and takes a sip of her sparkling cider. In the right glass, it looks enough like champagne to allow her to blend into the crowd.

“He _could_ be trying to ask you out,” Ivy suggests once again, voice flat from the frustration and repetition.

He gives her an admonishing look. “Don’t be ridiculous, Ivy,” Oswald says. She is prone to flights of fancy like this (and _no_ , this isn’t _anything_ like the Victor situation; she would _not_ be proven right this time) and while he usually tolerates it, this situation is _distressing_ him.

(“Who’s ridiculous?” Ivy mutters, and he ignores her pointedly.)

“It must be some sort of mind game he’s playing,” Oswald continues, a deep suspicion beginning to form in his gut.

It’s entirely possible -- Ed’s already proven he means no _physical_ harm, and except for that silly riddle he’d given Oswald (with no consequences if he doesn’t solve it!) he has yet to present any sort of task or challenges to complete. With those two (and Ivy’s _ridiculous, foolish_ suggestion) out, that really only leaves…

_Mind games_.

He hasn’t been successful pretending to be unaffected; and the coffee is _far_ too good to waste. So how can he one-up Ed? How can he...

“I need to invite him to dinner.”

Ivy blinks and stares at him.

He smirks at her, secure in his brilliant preemptive triumph.

“I thought…” Ivy says, “you _didn’t_ think he was asking you out.”

(Will Ivy _never_ stop!) “Of _course_ he’s not, Ivy,” Oswald says, tautly. He must have impressed her because she doesn’t roll her eyes again, just stares at him, bewildered.

“Run that by me again?” Ivy asks.

“ _He’s_ playing a mind game on _me_ ,” Oswald explains. “And how can I one-up him without him realizing that I’m on to him?”

“ _What_ are you on to?” Ivy interrupts.

Oswald ignores her. “I _escalate_ ,” Oswald finishes, holding his arms out wide. “Ergo, I need to invite him to dinner.”

“Freya help me,” Ivy murmurs, taking a sizable gulp of her drink. (Suddenly Oswald begins to suspect that it might not be sparkling cider after all.)

“Whatever the game is, I’m going to _win_ ,” Oswald says, with gleeful determination, and Ivy drops her head into her hands.

~

“Dinner. This evening.”

Ed glances up from the coffee to meet his gaze, eyes wide and guileless behind his lenses. “What was that?”

“Come for dinner.” Oswald can hardly believe his own daring; he had his _plan_ , of course, but to put it in _action_ is something entirely different.

As Ed stares at him, Oswald reaches out to pick up the coffee from the desk and takes a sip, as nonchalantly as he can manage. The heat of the coffee stings his lip (he’s been worrying at it even more frequently, as Ed keeps showing up with coffee and his plan is still opaque at best). 

A smile breaks out on Ed’s face -- ecstatic, unguarded, and Oswald’s heart thunders in his chest. (Has he played into Ed’s hand inadvertently? Or is it something… else?) “It would be my utmost pleasure.”

Oswald chews his lip uncertainly, but it’s too late now. “Tonight. Eight o’clock,” he says, and swallows an overlarge gulp of the coffee to prevent him from saying anything else.

Ed is still smiling at him sunnily, and he takes a sedate sip of his own coffee. “Looking forward to it,” he says.

Oswald gives him a brittle smile back, suddenly unsure about his plans. Maybe this _is_ like the Victor situation… no, _no_ , absolutely not. (Damn it! Now Ivy has _him_ thinking it.)

~

It feels _far_ too much like a date.

Well-- it’s _supposed_ to feel like a date. It’s escalation. That’s the whole _point_. But it’s not supposed to feel like a date to _Oswald_.

Maybe he should have listened to Ivy’s advice instead. What had her advice been, anyway? Something about… something… (Perhaps he hadn’t been listening as well as he should have.)

But Ed smiles at him from the other side of the table, looking happy and guileless, so Oswald’s plan is … working? Right? (What the hell is his _plan_ , again?)

“So,” Ed says, holding up his knife and his fork. “Two girls ate dinner together. They both ordered iced tea.”

“With you so far,” Oswald says.

Ed lifts the fork. “The first girl drank them very fast, and drank five of them in the time that it took the second girl--” he indicates the knife “--to drink one. The first girl survived and the second one--” Ed tips the knife over and it clatters noisily onto the tabletop “--dies. All of the drinks were poisoned.” His gaze moves up to Oswald’s eyes, expression intent and gleeful. “Why did one survive and the other die?”

“This isn’t going to be some sort of complicated chemistry answer, is it?” Oswald asks dubiously. “I never took high school science.”

“No, no chemistry,” Ed says. He lays the fork onto his plate, gently. “It’s a logic puzzle.”

“Let me think about it,” Oswald says, and Ed nods overenthusiastically, bobbing his head up and down. Oswald smiles at the sight (it’s because Ed looks so _silly_ like that, of course).

The conversation moves to common ground, which, of course, is the Bat these days. Ed details his most recent encounter with the caped crusader, who is, frankly, a lot less dangerous than their fellow villains (oh, he’s equally as _formidable_ , but when Joker would kill you as soon as look at you, just for fun, the Bat often appeared the better part of the deal). Oswald tells him about the infamous time Batman managed to break into the Iceberg and steal some of his “information”, and how Cat had staunchly refused to work with him for the subsequent ten months.

“The poison was in the ice!” Oswald blurts suddenly, and Ed’s head darts up to look at him. “It melted in the second girl’s drink and poisoned her,” Oswald continues, and then…

Ed smiles at him, brilliantly, teeth gleaming in the candlelight, eyes sparkling with some sort of undefinable emotion.

“Exactly,” he says, but his voice is too soft, his gaze too intent, and Oswald swallows nervously.

The moment stretches out into eternity, Ed’s gaze holding his steadily, his lips curved into a breathtaking smile, his breath held-- it’s dead silent, and fearful of breaking it, Oswald holds his breath too. But his heart is going to race out of his chest and his mouth is dry, and he doesn’t know if he can continue to _stand_ Ed’s faithful, warm gaze…

“Are you ever going to tell me _why_ you were bringing me coffee?” Oswald demands suddenly, shattering the mysterious, cloying mood. (He’s not _afraid_. It’s not that his heart is racing in his chest, his breath caught in his lungs, his eyes enraptured by Ed’s gaze -- it’s -- he’s just suddenly very _curious_ and he wants the answer.)

“Oh! You never asked!” Ed says brightly. “I didn’t know you were curious!”

Oswald stares at the other man, dumbfounded. “How could I _not_ be curious, Ed?” (This man can astonish him with his brilliance and insight, and just as easily astonish him with whatever the _hell_ is going on in his mind at any moment.)

“Okay!” Ed says, and Oswald straightens in his seat, Ed’s enthusiasm strangely catching. Ed grabs both of their drinks and switches them in one fluid move, giving him a mischievous little grin. “Did you ever see The Princess Bride?”

Oswald frowns (doesn’t think about the possible implications of the question, doesn’t… okay, he does a little, guiltily). “No. I read it,” he says.

“That works, too!” Ed says. “Do you remember--”

“--the iocane powder,” Oswald growls, the dots connecting in his mind suddenly and fatally. (Damn it, damn it, not like the Victor situation _at all_. He is _disgusted_ with Ed, with Ivy, and worst of all, _himself_.) “Ed, have you been drugging me?” he demands, voice a brittle muted squawk.

“Technically, no,” Ed says (and if Oswald ever needed proof of the man’s inability to read a room, _here_ was the evidence _right here_ ). “I was building your immunity. You were never given enough to produce an effect.”

“Does it seem like I _care_ , Ed?!” Oswald snaps. (If Ed can’t read the room, Oswald will _read it to him_.)

“Ah--” Ed says then. “Oh dear, I suppose this doesn’t seem like the most innocent of plans. I assure you--”

“Your assurances would have been welcome _before you started drugging me_!”

“Technically not drugging,” Ed insists.

Oswald rises from his chair, livid. “ _Edward Nygma_ ,” he spits, “you have been slipping a lethal substance into my drinks. I don’t care about your definitions! That’s _drugging_!”

Ed rises as well, his arms held out before him as if he’s forgotten what they’re for. He opens his mouth and hesitates, appearing to chew on his next word. “I-- I--”

“I cannot _believe_ you!”

“Did you solve the riddle yet?” Ed says in a rush, and Oswald bares his teeth.

“I don’t _care_ about your stupid riddle!”

“You need to--”

“Get _out_ , Ed!” Oswald howls, and Ed does, post haste.

~

There’s a knock at his office door and (even though it can’t _possibly_ be Ed since the man is allergic to knocking), Oswald’s heart leaps in his chest and he straightens in his chair.

“Mr. -- uh, Mr. Cobblepot?”

Definitely not Ed. Good. Of course he doesn’t want to see Ed. Not after the _disaster_ that was last night, where he learned Ed has been _drugging him periodically_ and not bringing him a coffee out of the kindness of his heart (and what kindness is that, he demands of himself, bitterly. When was the last time _you_ experienced his kindness?) or even just as an attempt to garner his favor.

In fact, it would suit him just fine to _never_ see Ed _again_.

He swallows nervously.

(He has never been good at lying to himself.)

“Mr. Cobblepot?” the voice says again, sounding brittle and strained.

“Come in!” Oswald snaps, ready for this encounter to be _over_.

It’s a barista from his favorite coffee shop on South Main, clutching a coffee in their hands. “Um-- the Riddler ordered this for you and he said to tell you that he didn’t touch it, it was us who made it and then he made me bring it here for you and he said to tell you that there’s no way he could have put anything in it because it hasn’t left my hands since he ordered it.”

Oswald blinks, parsing.

“And is all that true?” he says finally, giving the young barista his most intimidating down-the-nose stare.

“Yes,” they say, voice quiet and meek (and if that’s their answer after enduring his stare, it’s most likely the truth).

“Bring it here,” he says imperiously, holding his hand out for the coffee. They bring it to him and put it into his hand tentatively, making a point not to brush against his skin.

He waits until they’ve left to take a sip, and it’s as delicious as ever, but (he realizes now that it makes him think of Ed, bright smile and wide eyes) it turns to ash on his tongue after a heartbeat.

~

Ed doesn’t show up.

Oswald doesn’t care.

His drinking picks up again (of the alcoholic variety) but that’s only because he’s drinking less coffee, so he doesn’t have to worry about nausea from mixing the two (and nothing to do with the fact that it’s the only thing that’ll wash away the remembered taste of the coffee he’s come to irrevocably associate with Ed).

And his low mood is probably because of lowering his caffeine intake suddenly. Ivy keeps demanding to know what’s wrong, but he thinks she finally put it together on her own since she stops asking after three weeks. Anyway, this is by far from the worst he’s been. He’s minding his own business, continuing his own work, and… (not thinking about Ed; not thinking about _Ed_.)

(The worst thing about all of this is-- Oswald was _right_ , Ed definitely crossed a line. But he supposes he should have worded it better, or given him the benefit of the doubt, or… something. Ed has difficulty with things like this; Oswald still remembers the way he’d believed locking Oswald up in his apartment and drugging him was an appropriate treatment method.)

But he’s not thinking about Ed, so it doesn’t matter, really.

Regardless, he has his work, he has his employees, and most importantly, he has his _alcohol_.

The latter two of those are currently in his office.

“Here you are, sir,” William says. He still holds the bottle of bordeaux in one hand, Oswald’s cut crystal wine glass in the other. Oswald accepts it, distractedly, and downs nearly half the glass in a matter of moments.

“A refill, sir?” asks William, and Oswald holds his glass out.

There are several more repetitions before Oswald begins to suspect something is _wrong_ ; William has an ugly little grin on his face. (Very unflattering; he is the kind of man whose face suits a stoic look.) Oswald narrows his eyes and draws his gaze across William’s face, suspiciously.

“I can’t believe you _fell_ for it,” William says then, gleefully, and Oswald scowls at him. “You’ve drunk half the bottle already!”

Oswald reaches the obvious conclusion almost instantaneously, and with a scowl he demands: “You _poisoned_ me, you little rat?”

William laughs and drops the bottle, which was still clutched in his hand. It shatters onto the floor (Oswald’s heart leaps at the waste, but forcibly he reminds himself that it’s _poisoned_ ).

“How _dare_ you!” he spits. “After everything I’ve _done_ for you!”

William smirks at him, lips in a cruel twist. “Yes, after _everything_ you’ve done for me. You’re too sentimental, Mr. Cobblepot.”

Oswald clenches his hands into fists; or, his left hand. His right hand is busy scrabbling underneath his desk. “I suppose I should learn to recognize _snakes_ when I see them,” Oswald snaps (sentimental? Sentimental?! William doesn’t know the _half_ of it! Ah, there we go--). “But I thought you might at least have the _cunning_ of one. Apparently not.” He yanks his pistol from the hidden chamber under his desk and fires before William can blink.

It punches a hole in his gut, gushing blood immediately. He staggers back, expression stupid and astonished, and Oswald bares his teeth at the man as he falls back against the wall.

“Hubris,” Oswald spits derisively.

William slips down the wall, leaving a bright red smear of blood behind. Oswald sneers (won’t _that_ be hell to clean up -- but he needs to call Ivy before he drops dead here in his office) and scrambles for his mobile, pressing speed dial on a number as familiar as his own name.

~

“Um, you’re fine, actually,” Ivy says. “You’re not having any symptoms, are you?”

“Well, no,” Oswald concedes, pulling down his shirtsleeves and fastening his cuffs fastidiously. “But it’s not like William to get something like that _wrong_. And he paid for it with his life.”

“Hmm,” Ivy says, giving the slumped-over corpse a dubious look. “Well, I can do some tests on your drink, and maybe give you a sort of general well-being potion? Just in case?”

“I would appreciate it,” Oswald says. “Why is it so difficult to find good help nowadays, Ivy? Is it my notoriety? Is it my money?”

“It’s Gotham,” Ivy says simply. “We’re all a bit topsy-turvy here.” She slips a little vial into his hand. “Here’s the well-being. Let me just fiddle with your drink a bit, and we’ll see if we can get a positive result for something.”

Oswald finds himself craving a cup of coffee, suddenly, strongly. He bites his lip for a moment, hesitating; but something comfortingly familiar would be nice for once (if he wants to be reminded of Ed, reassured by his presence, well -- that’s no one’s business, not even his own).

He calls in and requests a delivery; the manager on the phone begins to tell him they don’t _do_ deliveries but when he mentions his address they suddenly become a lot more understanding. By the time he’s snapped his phone shut, Ivy is looking over at him a little curiously.

“So…” she begins. “There _is_ a pretty lethal amount of green fairy in here.”

“Of what?” Oswald demands, brows furrowed.

“Green fairy,” she says. “One of those new designer street drugs. It’s _pretty_ lethal.”

“So I’m _dying_?” Oswald demands. (Is it _grief_ causing her to skirt around the point, maddeningly?)

“If you drank _this_ ,” Ivy says, indicating the glass, “you’d be dead already.”

Oswald stares at her, blinking. She looks at him back. A few heartbeats pass.

“Well, I’m not,” Oswald says then, and Ivy nods vigorously.

“It doesn’t have an antidote, actually,” she continues. “You can only build up an immunity. Maybe you have some sort of natural one, or som-- Oswald?”

He’s not sure of the expression on his face but what he _does_ know is that it seems to have worried Ivy. “It was Ed,” he says finally, brows furrowed.

“Riddler… tried to poison you?” Ivy asks, a quizzical look on her face.

“Yes and no,” Oswald says (technically, yes, and substantively, _no_ \-- Ed has just inadvertently saved his life!), lifting a hand to his mouth and covering the sudden and uncontrollable fond smile on his face.

Ivy makes a weird face at him. “It’s never that simple with you two, is it?”

“No, it’s not,” Oswald says (but if he can be honest with himself, he wouldn’t want it any other way).

~

It’s easier to find Ed than he would have expected. (Perhaps it’s that Ed _wants_ to be found; perhaps it’s that Oswald _knows_ him; perhaps it’s both.)

Regardless, he’s in Oswald’s favorite coffee shop, the one on South Main, and (how had he known it’s Oswald’s favorite, by the way? Had he followed Oswald, or..?) Oswald isn’t sure exactly why he thought he would be here, but he _is_.

He’s sitting at one of the back tables, in the corner, and he has a newspaper spread over the table, with a green ballpoint gripped in his hand -- doing the crossword, most likely.

“Hello, Ed,” Oswald greets, cane at a nonchalant angle by his side, voice calm and nonconfrontational. Ed looks up at him, slowly, and when he meets Oswald’s eyes his expression is confused and a little... a little (hopeful?)...

“Hello, Oswald,” Ed says, eyes wide.

“I almost died today,” Oswald tells him, and Ed’s mouth drops open, a loud gasp escaping him.

“You did?” Ed demands, rising to his feet. “How? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Oswald reassures him. He looks down. “Thanks to you.”

“...Me?” Ed asks, voice hesitant.

Oswald takes a deep breath, steeling himself, and says: “One of my employees tried to poison me today. I would have died before Ivy reached me, if it weren’t for the fact that… it was green fairy. I presume that’s the one you took it upon yourself to immunize me to.”

Ed nods, slowly.

“I apologize,” Oswald blurts without thinking. “You owe me an apology, too, Ed; but I overreacted. I shouldn’t have sent you away, especially not for telling the truth. I should have let you explain.”

“Oswald…” Ed says, voice wondering. (Oswald doesn’t think about what might cause Ed to sound so… dazed and captivated.) “...did you solve my riddle?” Ed finishes finally, and Oswald feels the urge to smack himself in the face. (Always with the _riddles_ ; he should _know_ by now..!)

Oswald closes his eyes in exasperation. (Is Ed too _good_ to accept his apology? Is he _above_ these things?) “Can you repeat it for me?” he asks flatly, uninterestedly.

He can hear the agitation in Ed’s voice as he speaks. “What fastens two people yet only touches one?” he asks, and Oswald frowns mulishly. It would go a lot faster if Ed would just _tell_ him the answer, but he remembers that for whatever reason Ed had been adamant that Oswald solve it on his own.

Fastens two people... a bond of some sort, and touches only one: “A wedding ring,” Oswald says without thinking. Then his eyes open, wide, astonishment in his gaze. “You-- Ed, you--”

Ed is staring at him, expression enraptured; Oswald can practically see stars dancing in his eyes. “Ed…” Oswald tries again, but his voice fails him utterly.

“Would you -- er -- consider,” Ed says nervously, and Oswald holds his hand up abruptly to halt him.

“Were we even _dating_?” Oswald demands. (Were they? Were they?!? Ed never said anything!)

Based on Ed’s confused and upset expression, he apparently is under the impression they _had_ been. “...Yes?” Ed says uncertainly. (And that sends Oswald’s heart wildly racing in his chest … this _is_ like the Victor thing after all! He had been right!)

“Okay,” Oswald says, taking a deep breath. “I didn’t know that -- that’s fine,” he appends hastily. “I want -- I want to,” he says in a rush, and Ed blinks, his cheeks turning pink. “I just didn’t know,” he finishes. “I think we need to practice our communication skills.”

Ed shuffles his feet. “So would you consider..?”

“Stop right there!” Oswald says, holding up his hand once again. “Don’t you dare! You-- you sprung this on me, and I need to buy a ring for you!”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” Ed says immediately, but Oswald shakes his head sharply.

“No, I want to buy you one,” Oswald says stubbornly. “I won’t hear any proposals until I’ve done so.”

“Okay,” Ed says, and he’s smiling a little wonderingly, so Oswald thinks he’s pleased. (And now that he thinks about it, Ed had always been shocked silent by gifts, staring at Oswald with wide, disbelieving eyes.)

Oswald reaches out and captures Ed’s hands in his own, looking up into his dark eyes. “I’m glad we’re on the same page, then,” he says, and Ed smiles down at him.

“Me, too,” Ed says.

Oswald finds himself staring into Ed’s eyes quite contentedly, and Ed seems just as happy to hold his gaze. His hands are warm in Oswald’s, and faintly Oswald can smell his cologne underneath the general eau du cafe that fills the coffee shop.

“Mr. Cobblepot?” a voice says, jarring him out of his daze.

“Yes?” Oswald snaps impatiently, tightening his grip on Ed’s hands and turning fractionally toward the barista.

“Did you -- did you want your coffee?” the barista asks, voice trembling slightly.

“ _Can’t you see I’m busy_?” Oswald demands imperiously. (These people!)

“We’ll take it to go,” Ed interjects.

“Where are we going?” Oswald asks.

“Back to your place. Or mine. Whichever you prefer,” Ed says, and Oswald feels a blush on his cheeks at the implication.

“Sounds wonderful,” Oswald says, and then he has a mouthful of _Ed_ , his hands gripping Oswald’s tightly, his tongue slipping between Oswald’s lips and tasting him. Ed tastes like coffee and cinnamon, and Oswald hasn’t experienced anything quite so wonderful.

“I’ll, um, leave your coffee here,” the barista interjects.

Oswald flips them the bird without breaking the kiss, and he can feel Ed’s pleased chuckle against his lips.

“I cannot be bought, but I can be stolen with a glance,” Ed murmurs into his lips, tone pleased.

“Shut up, Ed.” (At least he’s pretty.)


End file.
